


Dangerous

by hafren



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafren/pseuds/hafren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long after Gauda Prime, an ageing Vila gets a visitor from the past, and the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> "The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son, and I am but a barren stock" - Elizabeth I

The old man fumbled a few credits out of his pocket, nearly dropping them, and grimaced as he put them on the bar. Not enough. He looked hopefully at the barmaid.

The young woman hesitated. She wasn't supposed to trust anyone for money, which in this district was understandable. But he knew she liked him. She laughed at his jokes, tolerated a bit of harmless flirtatiousness and appreciated the fact that if he had a few too many he never got nasty or aggressive, like some of the customers she had to put up with. Just a bit garrulous. She smiled, swept the credits into the till and discreetly added a couple.

He grinned, a bit shamefaced. "Thanks, Deryn. I'll pay you back."

"Yeah, I know." He was careful about that. He never carried much cash on him, but if she subbed him for a drink he'd always bring the balance in before long.

She poured the drink. He cupped both hands around the glass and raised it carefully to his lips. He had a tremor in his hands; some days it was better than others but it was always there. This wasn't one of the better days. He had trouble holding the glass still enough to drink; she rested her hands either side of his and steadied them.

"Not so good today?"

"Nah." He lowered the glass again, with her help, and rubbed a sleeve across his watery eyes. "Did I ever tell you how I broke into Central Control?"

"Yeah," she said, "but you can tell me again if you like." The bar wasn't busy, and she was good about listening to his outlaw stories. Now and then, she would cut in. "Hey, I remember hearing about that in school. In whispers, of course; those stories weren't supposed to get around but they always did. It seems strange now, hearing names out loud that we'd have got into trouble for even saying."

The old man studied his reflection in the dusty glass behind the bar and wondered when his hair had got so sparse. He caught her eye on him and grinned ruefully.

"'Tisn't always a good idea to put faces to names, is it?"

But she was turning, noticing that another customer had come up to the bar. The old man watched the light kindle in her eyes as she took the order, the pretty confusion that came into her voice. He grinned wryly; he could hardly blame her. The newcomer was a cut above what usually came in here, well-dressed for a start and undeniably good-looking. He nodded at the old man's glass and said "Want another one in there?"

"Couldn't buy you one back, mate. I'm not in funds."

"That's all right. I am." He paused. "I couldn't help overhearing just then. You're Vila Restal, aren't you?"

"So?"

The stranger shrugged. "Heard of you, that's all. There was a docudrama on the history channel, a few nights ago."

He laughed bitterly. "More fiction than history, I'll bet." He manoeuvred the glass shakily to his lips and downed it in one. The stranger's brow furrowed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." He hated the constant reminders that the revolution was over and done with, fading into history, that names which had been feared and cherished were harmless enough to be the stuff of docudrama. As harmless as an old man in a pub. "What did it say about me?"

The man hesitated. "Oh, all about your lock-picking, the usual stuff. And how you co-operated with the authorities afterwards." He paused, and added delicately "I suppose that bit must be true, or you wouldn't still be alive."

Vila glanced sharply at him; he had to be twenty-five at least. "You must have seen the repeats of the viscasts; they're on often enough." He made his voice as indifferent as he could, but it still wavered when he thought about all those confessions, recantations, eulogies to the Federation's mercy.

The man shook his head. "I haven't long been in Federation space. I come from a long way off." He beckoned the barmaid over and passed her Vila's glass.

"Who'm I drinking with, anyway?"

"My name's... Greig," Vila recognised the slight hesitancy that went with not being quite used to your alias. "Kerr Greig."

Vila's heart turned over. Don't be daft, it's just a coincidence. But there was something in the voice; the man knew what he was saying, and he'd sought him out. Kerr.

He took another look at his companion. The young man's hair was blond, a warm honeyed glow, but then he might take after his mother, whoever she was. There'd been that priestess on Cephlon; he dimly recalled her being fairish, and from what he'd heard of the Anna business, it was well possible there was a young Chesku somewhere whose parentage didn't bear close investigation. He'd said he didn't come from Federation territory, but of course he could be lying... Vila noticed for the first time the deep brown of the man's eyes, and found his own suddenly full of tears.

"Come home with me," he said.

***

They were about halfway back to Vila's when they saw the two men loitering in the shadows. Oh shit, he thought. Though it was a bad area for muggings, he usually had no trouble, because everyone knew he wasn't worth robbing. He'd forgotten how well-dressed his companion was. It had been asking for trouble to bring him this way. He murmured out of the side of his mouth "How fast can you run?"

Kerr grinned. "I wouldn't know; I never tried." He put an arm casually around the old man's shoulders. He wasn't very tall, no taller than Vila himself had been before he acquired his stoop, but his grip was surprisingly strong. As they walked, he let his coat fall open, as if by accident, and Vila saw the glint of a knife at his belt. The men saw it too. They were still two to one, at least in Vila's reckoning; he never counted himself as a combatant. They began to move closer. Kerr looked straight at them, smiling, and Vila could have sworn the temperature dropped. It was a long time since he'd seen eyes go as cold as that. This bloke was dangerous. The men looked away, and found something to be suddenly busy about. All the rest of the way home, Vila's mind was flooded with memories.

He'd never noticed before how small his room was. He cleared the one chair of the clothes he'd left on it and installed his visitor in front of the tiny vidscreen while he heated up some food for them both. He swept some more stuff off the folding table and set it up for Kerr; himself he sat on the bed with a tray on his knee.

He couldn't take his eyes off the young man, looking for known features. The face was pleasant, open, attractive; he could see why the barmaid had liked it. But there was no sign of the high-bridged nose or the sensuous mouth. He couldn't, particularly, see anything he recalled of Meegat or from the picture of Anna, either. And yet he was certain. It wasn't just the brown eyes; it was his own reaction to the man. He felt drawn to him, as if he had known him for years. Indeed, though he could recognise no individual feature, the face was unnervingly familiar.

He went to clear the plates, and tripped over Kerr's feet. "Sorry," he said, "this place hasn't got room enough for two of us to breathe out at once. Lucky you're no bigger than me." Just like your father wasn't, he added in his heart.

He wanted desperately to ask Kerr about his background, but felt a need to go carefully. Questions might lead to questions, and some of the answers would be at least embarrassing. What was my father like? Well, he tried to kill me once. How did he die? Spitting defiance at a firing squad, while I filled several tapes with confessions and denunciations. He added hot water to a bland dust inaccurately labelled coffee and couldn't hold back any longer. "Why did you come looking for me?"

There was a long pause. "Because I don't believe the docudramas either. I want to know what really happened." His intense eyes looked straight into Vila's. That wasn't all; it couldn't be. Vila nearly asked "why", but shied off; he wasn't ready for the answer yet. He could feel himself being checked out, evaluated. "All right," he said, "what do you want to know?"

"Why are you" - the man was choosing his words carefully - "not only on the loose, but safe telling rebel stories in pubs?"

Vila's mouth twisted in bitterness. "Oh, that's easy. I'm not a Fed plant, if that's what you're thinking. I'm just not dangerous." He gestured at the vidscreen. "Put that on hold." They were made so they couldn't be switched off, but there was a default screen. The young man flicked the switch and it came on, a full-screen close-up of the President's face. Vila's stomach contracted and his hands shook so much he had to put the cup down.

"Are you all right?" The concern in the brown eyes nearly unmanned him; he hadn't seen that very often.

"Yeah. I'm all right." The President was vain enough to use a picture years younger than she was; it was still the face he saw in his nightmares. "She" - he never spoke her name if he could help it - "came to see me, when they were sure they'd got everything I knew out of me. I'd been promised life in exchange for testifying, and I was waiting to be shipped off to a prison planet, assuming they didn't just decide to go back on their word and execute me anyway. But she said she'd been thinking, and letting me go would do them more good." He closed his eyes and quoted, the words still burned into his mind after all those years. "All the rest are dead, Vila; you're the last. People's memories are short. If we lock you away, in twenty years they'll be thinking of you as some sort of martyr. But if you're there, where they can see you, shambling around doing whatever labour-grade work we assign you, drinking your wages, boring everyone with old stories... Of course there'll always be the viscast confessions; we'll run repeats of your finest moments every so often. But what could compare with the real thing? Vila Restal, the face of the revolution."

He reached for the coffee but couldn't manage it; Kerr had to put an arm around him and hold the cup to his lips. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to upset you."

Vila shook his head. "It's all right. I'm still luckier than... than the others. I think she hoped I'd do myself in, once I was out here, but I won't. She's not writing my bloody epitaph. I'll see her out; she's looking pretty haggard herself these days, when she comes on the news. And if even one person listens to those stories and isn't bored, it's worthwhile, isn't it?"

He gave a great yawn, before he could stop himself. Kerr glanced at his watch. "I didn't know it was so late. I'm keeping you up."

"You got somewhere to sleep? You can stay here if you need to; I've got a sleeping bag somewhere."

The young man hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, I'd like that. I haven't been here long; I'm in a hostel but I'm sure it's bugged, like everywhere in this damn place. But I bet yours isn't."

Vila grinned. "Yeah, my hands may not be up to much but I got my gaff clean. Not a one left. I'll get the bag."

"And Vila," Kerr said softly, "you're right. It is worthwhile."

***

In the night he woke from a bad dream to find someone standing over him, and flung up his arm.

"It's all right," Kerr said, "it's all right. You're safe with me." Vila laughed shakily, close to revealing something, but the young man's concern seemed real and it was hardly fair to judge him by his father.

***

But when he woke next morning and found the sleeping bag empty, he had second thoughts. Who was the man, after all? Vila only had his word for it that he was even called Kerr. He thought back over the evening, trying to recall if he'd said anything especially subversive. Were they watching him after all; was he more important than he supposed?

The room had chilled off overnight. He turned the heating up a notch; he had a guest after all... If he was a guest. Come out of nowhere, asking questions, and he'd taken him home. He shivered, and cursed his own stupid eagerness, his need, after all these years.

The door opened, and he tensed.

"It's only me." The young man had a bag of groceries. "I thought I'd go shopping, to say thank you."

Vila felt irrationally disappointed, knowing he wasn't really dangerous enough to be under surveillance, and even more irrationally elated that his guest was back. He unpacked the bag. It was more than he'd normally buy in a week, and better quality. "You're not short of a few credits, then? That reminds me, I owe Deryn a couple. I'll have to get down there soon as I can. Poor girl gets paid peanuts herself; they expect her to make up the difference being nice to the punters, and most of them you wouldn't want to be nice to. She fancied you, though."

Kerr blushed and looked pleased: none of his father's arrogance, Vila thought, and then recalled how he'd dealt with the two would-be muggers. Well, we're all a mixture of two people, when it comes down to it. He made them both some breakfast.

"You got to go to work today?" he asked.

"No. I'm an outworlder, like I said. I'm on a visitor's pass. What about you?"

"Can't any more." Vila held up his shaking hands; it was a bad day again. "I get a bit of invalidity benefit, and I managed to put some by, when I was working. Come on, I want to pay the lass."

***

The bar reeked of stale drink; the floor sticky under their feet. Deryn was clearing up. She looked as if she hadn't slept much, but she gave them a smile. Vila handed over the credits.

"That's too much; you only owed me a couple."

"Call it interest. Go on, you're saving for the rent on somewhere decent, aren't you?" He caught her hesitant glance at his worn clothes and said gently "I'm richer than I look, honest. I'm an eccentric miser."

She laughed. "You're mad, you. You need looking after." She looked up from under her eyelashes at Kerr. "Are you looking after him?"

"Maybe." Kerr's voice, his presence, seemed to unnerve her; her face lit up but she moved away, switched on the vidscreen and began polishing the bar, humming along to the pappy music.

Kerr moved closer to Vila and said in an undertone "Here. I've got plenty." He showed a handful of credits.

"Well, don't flash it around in places like this then, you fool. Hell, you really are an outworlder, aren't you?" Vila hesitated, then went on. "I don't need it; I was telling her the truth, more or less." The young man raised an eyebrow, as if he expected to hear more. Vila's natural caution resurfaced. "Maybe you should tell me-"

Then he froze, and closed his eyes. The music on the vidscreen had given place to the news. Voices, sometimes, don't age with faces; the President's was much as he recalled it.

"My," Deryn had moved back their way and was looking at the screen, "she's looking old these days. Sort of dried out."

"Not half enough," he muttered.

"I've heard," Deryn lowered her voice, "it's all those fertility treatments she's tried. They say she's even been pregnant a few times, but it never goes past a couple of months."

"That long? She always was a poisonous environment."

The barmaid glanced at him, surprised by the harshness in his tone. "That's a bit cruel."

"Save your pity. Believe me, she's got no-one to blame but herself. You ever heard of Auron? They had cloning tech there, the only ones who did, once the Clonemasters died in the war, and they cloned some embryos for her. She could have had any number of little replicas running around" - he shuddered at the thought. "And you know what she did? She bombed the building they were in, because some of us were nearby. Totalled the lot. So I'd say it was her own choice, which is more than some of us got." His mouth was set hard. Deryn looked at him for a moment and moved away again.

Kerr said quietly. "Let's go". It was still early; the walkways were starting to be crowded with people going to work. Vila stumbled when someone brushed against him, and Kerr took his arm. He was still supporting him when they got back to the room. The young man guided Vila to the chair and made coffee, from a new packet that tasted, if not like coffee, far less like wood shavings.

"What did you mean," he asked, "about being rich? And about some people not having a choice?"

Vila paused, then decided; they couldn't pussyfoot around for ever. "All right, but a secret for a secret. I answer your questions, you answer mine?"

Kerr nodded, and Vila took a long swig of the coffee. "All right. The eccentric miser bit, first. When they were... asking me questions... I gave away all the political stuff for nothing, but it took a bit more to get the numbers of the bank accounts I'd stashed about the galaxy." He stared at his trembling hands. "And even then, they didn't get quite all of them. I've got enough, but I need to be careful; if I started spending more than I'm meant to have, they might twig."

The young man smiled, genuine admiration in his eyes. Vila recalled times he'd picked a lock or pulled some scam, and seen a look like that. He swallowed and went on. "Mostly all I saw were the usual run-of-the-mill interrogators but one morning she came in. She had a question for me, but not one I'd been expecting. She wanted to know if the clone embryos on Auron had really been hers. Seems one of her staff had told her otherwise, and she still wasn't sure. I was baffled. I said, but you killed them. And she said yes, but I wouldn't have done if I'd thought they were mine." He paused and shook his head. "I couldn't believe I was hearing it, even from her. I think it must have shocked me out of all sense, because I just said what I thought. "But you knew they were someone's. They were a bunch of kids, you killed them just to get at us; what did it matter whose they were? If you could kill anyone's kids, you aren't fit to have your own."

"That was brave," Kerr said softly.

Vila's laugh was bitter. "Yes, and a lot of good it did me. She was furious but she kept cool; she just pointed at my hands, which were in a pretty bad state by then, and said "Electrodes can be applied to other places, Vila". The blokes who visited me that afternoon weren't looking for information, and by the time they left, sex wasn't a possibility, let alone reproduction. That was the last I saw of her, till the day she told me I wasn't dangerous enough to be worth locking up."

Kerr took the mottled, veiny hands between his own and chafed them gently. "I don't want to live in a universe where people like that run things. My planet's a long way from the Feds, but that doesn't make it safe. If you don't stop people like that, eventually they come for you. That's why I'm here; you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, so you can answer my question now. Tell me your name, because it isn't Greig, is it? Kerr, yes, after your dad, but what's the other one?"

The young man simply stared at him, open-mouthed, for a moment. Then he said quietly "You're mistaken. I can see why you would think that; it never occurred to me... I take my first name from my mother, or as close as she could get, but you're right, my second name is not Greig. She did call me after my father. I am Kerr Restal."

The room spun. Vila looked into the face he'd seen so many times in a mirror, his own, young, face from so many years back. The open features, the brown eyes, under Kerril's shining cap of blonde hair. The eyes that went cold in the face of danger, with the nerve that was his inheritance from his mother...

The man glowed, seeming to fill the mean little room. Vila sank his face in his hands, too ashamed to look at him. All his evasions, confessions, betrayals rose up in his throat. "What do you think of me," he whispered, "when you look at me, what do you see?"

Kerr pulled his hands gently aside and tilted his chin. "A survivor. Someone who was tortured by the system and still managed to put one over on it. Someone who's kind to badly paid barmaids."

Vila reached out to touch the young face, his hand trembling. "I can't even teach you lock-picking, not now."

Kerr covered the hand with his own. "When I said I was coming looking for you, my mother told me 'When you find him, he won't look like a hero. And that'll be why he's still alive. Men who go around looking like heroes end up dead with nothing useful done. He can teach you a lot, and one of the most important things is how not to look like a hero.' Mother thinks I tend not to be careful enough." He grinned apologetically.

Vila laughed shakily, his eyes still swimming. "That I can teach you all right." Even to brush the tears from his eyes, he couldn't, for a second, stop looking at this miracle: the fighter, the far-traveller, the young, brave, beautiful being he had helped to make. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the face on the vidscreen and laughed with real joy. "Guess what," he told it, "the only people who never get a second chance are the ones who haven't got kids. Enjoy what you've got left, pal, cos when you die you're dead. But I won't be."

He smiled into the face of the next revolution. "Oh my," he murmured, "was I dangerous, or was I dangerous."


End file.
